First cup of coffee in cold cabin,

river singing soft down the hill.

First fire that might – actually – take,

pieces too large, fatigue refusing a need

to chop

smaller.

Smoke, ash, dust, paint chips,

resin, sycamores and sweet cottonwood..

all of us here with two owls calling.

These will be the new mornings:

rise hours before dawn, wood and food, both,

prepped days ahead,

stare into the maw of the squirrel stove,

blessing fatwood and thanking oak,

wrapping myself in sleeping bag

and sitting in the rocker

to watch first light

gulp the hills.